The front gate was packed with Daemons, so King Alex slipped in the back, like a shadow threading a crack in stone.

They stayed “obedient” and left the rear open; wolves ringed the front, the alley lay empty, so he slipped home like a fish to water.

He rose from the car seat, and the next heartbeat he dropped into the throne, like trading one cage for another of gilded bars.

A sour thought rippled first—am I aging fast because I sit all day, rooted like a stump, nowhere to go? Then his hands stilled like a pond at dusk.

“Your Majesty, please issue orders!” the shout cracked the air like a spear on a shield.

—Issue orders… hah—the thought tasted cold, like winter water on the tongue.

Every soldier waited on my word like a drawn bow, while the Daemons were a fog of unknowns.

A careless command would feed men into the maw.

“All forces hold a defensive stance,” King Alex ordered, his voice steady as iron.

“No one attacks first,” he added, like a lid set on boiling water.

“Send one or two to scout their details,” he said, thin and quick as knives.

“We’ll decide after,” he finished, like a seal pressed in wax.

The soldier in ornate iron withdrew, his plates gleaming like fish scales and his boots fading like a drumbeat down a long hall.

On the throne, King Alex let out a long breath, a pine-wind sigh over stone eaves.

His worry gathered in his chest like rain in a cistern, and he couldn’t just pen two ancient-style poems and be done.

The messenger shouted, “Report—Merchant Lik requests audience!” and the cry split the quiet like an arrow through paper.

“Lik—what for?” he thought, the words dropping like a pebble into still water.

He nodded, a reed tip in wind, and once the messenger withdrew, the merchant called Lik drifted in like a curl of smoke.

Had Remi been here, she would have known at a glance—this Lik was the one who traded her obsidian, a shard of night.

By rights, even a merchant should offer full courtesies before a sovereign, like kneeling willow leaves before a river king.

Instead, Lik hauled in a stool and sat, the scrape a crow’s caw, ignoring King Alex’s face darkening like a brewing storm.

“What are you here for—we don’t lack weapons,” King Alex said, his tone cold as hoarfrost and edged like a shut gate.

The dismissal in his voice was a broom sweeping the threshold, but Lik, seasoned by trade, feigned deafness and stayed like a nailed plank.

“Oh my, oh my~ after a while apart, Your Majesty, your treatment keeps rising; it makes me want to try a crown myself~” Lik purred, a cat licking cream.

“If you’ve nothing, leave,” he said, the words snapping like frost on a twig.

“You’ve seen the Daemons outside—if you fear death, go,” his voice cracked like ice over a black river.

“No, my king—without the courage to offer up my life, I couldn’t be a merchant,” Lik said, a coin held over flame.

“Cut the chatter—what do you want; wasn’t taking my industrial rights enough,” he snapped, like a blade striking a bell.

“Tsk, tsk~ Your Majesty, you wound me,” Lik smiled, his voice slick as oil.

“It was a lawful trade, not a robbery—willing buyer, willing seller; how can that be theft?” he said, hands spreading like fans.

King Alex’s patience frayed; the Elvenfolk and Daemon crisis beat his skull like war drums, and this man piled trouble like stones on a cart.

His right hand slid to the throne’s arm; his thumb clicked, and a slim sword sprang out, a sliver of moonlight from hidden wood.

“I’ll say it again—get to the point,” he said, his aura rolling like thunderheads over a plain.

An ordinary man would black out in that gale, like a candle in a squall.

Lik’s face didn’t ripple; the merchant’s poker mask was a slab of ice that weathered any sun.

“All right, all right, don’t be mad~ anger’s bad for the body,” he cooed, a paper fan stirring warm air.

As he drew, Lik whisked out a paper, a folded night sky; black ants for letters, and a map’s bare bones.

“Your Majesty, look—this is the Daemons’ distribution map,” Lik said, lifting it like a net heavy with dark fish.

“You’re fretting over them, right—this marks strength and terrain, a lantern’s map to guide your blade.”

“What do you want,” King Alex asked, swallowing the useless question of how like a bitter pill.

Lik seemed pleased he wasn’t cross-examined; a crack of warmth showed in that frost mask, like sunlight chipping ice.

“Sure enough, working with you is a pleasure. Then I’ll be blunt…” he said, the pause hanging like a blade over silk.

King Alex held his breath, a knot tightening like a fist; he loved to ask for the moon, and last time it was industrial rights.

If he wanted industry then, he might reach for the army now, like a hawk stooping for the heart.

That, he would never allow, not while his crown still cast a shadow.

“I want military power~,” Lik sang, the words dropping like stones.

“Impos—” King Alex began, the refusal flaring like a spark.

“Kidding~ I wouldn’t trade the army for a small chip; what I want is simple and costs you nothing,” he said, palm light as wind.

Being toyed with stung like a nettle, but King Alex swallowed the fire, unwilling to burn a deal to ash.

“I want a promise~,” he said, the word fluttering like a red ribbon.

King Alex echoed, “A… promise?” and his doubt pooled like ink.

“Mm—grant me leave to join, as one party, your future cooperation with Miss Alicia~,” Lik said, smiling like a fox under a lantern.